Reflections on my glasses?

I have another half dozen pairs around the house!

This is a picture from my office; the latest attempt at bringing order to chaos, and a wry comment on my writing life. When I posted the image on our family WhatsApp my son replied, 'how long until the hooks are empty?'  For someone who has a reputation for diligence, my absent-mindedness is legendary.

Jane despairs. 

She has two pairs of specs that are always at hand; it's much the same with her keys or handbag. But then, if I ask her to make a bank transfer or phone for an appointment, there's a high probability I'll be reminding her a few days later, and quite possibly the day after and the day after that... In the grist of everyday life, Jane's a 'do it when it's necessary' person, whereas I'm a 'tick it off, so it's sorted' kind of guy.

No doubt the best course lies somewhere in between. For whatever 'it' may be, addressing matters early is seldom as critical as I tend to think. On the other hand, to diminish advance planning or view absent-mindedness as equivalent to ill-discipline would be equal mistakes.

I tell myself that my habit of losing my glasses stems from thinking of bigger and more important concerns. Jane's view is that I should get off my high horse and pay more attention to where I jettison my stuff. Again, the truth—and the best way—is at neither extreme.

And so we compromise, making the most of our respective virtues. You might say we are stronger together, working as a team... oh, I could so easily fill this paragraph with management clichés. For indeed, there is some accuracy in them, as there is in all stereotypes. The important thing is to realise that it's not the whole or only truth. 

But enough of this philosophising, it was only a humorous photo and a little glimpse into my world. Someday I might show you my new 'tin shed'. It was designed by my son—the one who queried how long before the hooks are empty.  And now I think about it, we worked together on it too; his design and my project management skills, not forgetting a little trust on each side.

The end result is the best office I've ever had. To write here is a joy, most days with Oscar curled on the seat by my desk. Meanwhile, the hooks on my filing cabinet remind me that like their magnets to the metal, my eyes to my glasses, Jane to me and vice versa... we all need each other to get along.

Quince jelly reflections

This week I made quince jelly from the fruits in my garden. It's become an annual ritual; my own miniature harvest festival with a bittersweet tang that marks the start of winter and yet the ending of my busiest period of work. The coming months will be—I hope—ones of less stress and more creative plenty. 

Although even to write that has an edge to it too. 

For only recently I gave a talk to some students in which I claimed the difference between creative and corporate writing is more blurred than it seems. I use much the same skills in crafting a blog post as I do in writing a workplace communication; the need for truth and clarity are as applicable to a company announcement as they are to the personal essay. Yesterday I read for the umpteenth time, Orwell's 'In Praise of English Cooking', a piece that in its rounded perfection would merit a place on any menu for a last literary meal on earth.

Orwell doesn't mention quince in his list of British delicacies, though at one time it was more common here than apples, which were not widespread until the middle ages. Today we consider it more of a Mediterranean or even oriental plant, with Japanese varieties having moderate popularity in discerning gardens. The fruits are hard and inedible when raw, but—in some ways like words—when carefully prepared they have seemingly endless possibilities, with a capacity to surprise and delight as well stimulate the tongue.

My crop this year was ample for our needs. In our former house, we had a long hedge of bushes that produced sacks of fruit but made the processing somewhat of a chore. I now have two small shrubs and yet we harvested enough to make four litres of piquant jelly. Had I had more time, I could have made the pith into membrilo, a delicacy from the Iberian peninsula, more commonly known as quince cheese. 

Alternatively, I might have made quince vodka or quince pudding; my friend and fellow blogger Michelle once cooked a quince tarte tatin which she claimed was delicious. Orwell says in his essay that Oxford orange marmalade is one of England's finest foods, but I wonder if he knew that the word comes from the Portuguese marmalada which means quince preparation.  

On which subject, my annual ritual is more about patience than skill. I don't follow a recipe but simply chop the fruits, cover with water and bring to a simmer...  After an hour at most, I mash the mixture and strain it through a muslin bag. The resulting juice is mixed 60:40 to sugar, boiled vigorously and then decanted into sterile jars. Once it's cooled, you can spread it on your toast the next morning... or perhaps you prefer muffins, or eating it with cheese or merely spooned from the jar.

Who cares, it's all good.

I shall share much of our bounty with friends, for though it keeps well the jelly is best eaten when young. There's a piquancy to the new crop that's more alive and arresting than any supposed depth of flavour that comes with age. Or in plainer English—and the type of words Orwell would favour—it comes with a raw and vigorous smack in the mouth!  

Perhaps that's why I like it so much; why this strange gnarly apple appeals to my sense of self; why its tang is something I crave and yet can't quite fix and even less hold onto?

Quinces it seems are among the oldest of fruits but their taste is the flavour of youth. 

Shed of the year

I see that a hand-built cabin in the Cambrian Mountains has won Cuprinol's Shed of the Year. A prize of £1000 attracted hundreds of entrants - and about a million quid's worth of free publicity for Cuprinol. I bet their marketing team is delighted.

It seems that sheds are all the rage. There are books on sheds, brochures on sheds, TV programmes on sheds; there's even the equivalent of 'shed porn' websites (not really you understand)  on which enthusiasts download images and arrange shed parties or whatever else they do. I'd bet there's been academic papers with titles like 'the itinerant shed and its role in a post-modern society'.

Depending on your definition, I have at least two sheds and possibly three. The difficulty comes in whether our outhouse is truly a shed or just a room for the boiler. But let's not get all philosophic  - for the purposes of this blog we can agree that I have two, and I'll declare my working definition as being that a shed should have room to sit, read book and make a cup of tea. The ideal one would also have a sofa or bed, capable of accommodating at least a mid afternoon snooze.


In my case, the attraction is part nostalgic. My grandfather had a gimcrack cabin he would retire to after his daily trip to the Legion. It smelled of beer and leeks and had net curtains and a tripod table with a lace tablecloth. The walls were covered in our childhood drawings which in some cases he'd framed, though he was as good as blind.

There's also a need for space - 'thinking' a much as 'physical' - which some would argue is a reflection of our homes and lifestyles. But in fact, the idea of a creative haven has a long tradition, as well as practical application in so far as it allows for materials to be readily available and projects easily returned too.  My recent playing of the saxophone gives this a new twist - I'm regularly banished to give the family some peace, rather than the other way round!

I've often wondered about the benefit of installing sheds at the office - it's an attractive idea, but doomed to failure. In no time they'd be demarcated; there'd be rules and regulations, an on-line booking system, plasma screens and tea and coffee on demand - they'd be a pastiche of the real thing, a veneer for the ego; out of touch with the original purpose.

Not that there is some deep meaning or meta-purpose in the sheds themselves - that too would be bollocks. They are simply a means to fun, to reconnecting, to winding down, to time alone - or in my case, to time with Dylan - twice this week we've had a 'shed-night': watched a movie, had some snacks, read stories and woken up to the dawn chorus - precious times. What's that phrase... can never come again?

But if times can't come again; ideas are constantly recycled. I couldn't help noticing the shed of the year's resemblance to the upturned boats on Lindisfarne. They have been there, icons of time and place, for more than a century - the oldest dates from 1902. Believe it or not, they're now in the care of the National Trust - so much for the humble cabin.

And not a drop of Cuprinol in sight.

Apple Pear Plum

The back of my garden - pre pruning

Yesterday I saw my first Spring butterfly, a glimpse of acid lemon in the dappled light of my garden. It was a Brimstone, one of our longest lived species; the adults survive the winter by roosting in woods  before breeding in spring. This one flew strongly, spiralling above the trees then heading to the park.

I came to this house last October and have not felt entirely at home since. Jane loves the Edwardian feel, the period doors and leaded windows; my bigger boys like the extra space; Dylan, his room with a secret cupboard. As for me, I was happy where we were, felt no need for any of these things - but I have always liked the garden. When we came to view, I spent more time outside than in. There's a raised fish pond, two walnut trees, a wisteria over the entrance. The day I agreed to the move, I counted twenty butterflies on the buddleia.

But the garden was overgrown. If I was kind I'd say the previous owners had a wilderness approach; more likely, they couldn't be arsed or it all became too much. It took four truck loads to clear the first pruning, I found enough soil down the side of the garage to fill a raised bed; now the borders are cleared we have all manner of shoots and bulbs responding to the light.

I'm too impatient to be a proper gardener. At least that's what Jane says. I ought to wait a year, see what comes through and plan it properly. She's right I'm sure, but this winter I needed progress. I wanted to clear the debris, establish a scheme and reverse the neglect. So in four months we've rebuilt walls, cleared the ivy, dug out dead trees and finally, last week, I went to buy some plants.

I chose three fruit trees - an espalier apple, a matching pear and a prolific plum. They are for the rear lawn, the one area our predecessors had cleared, because in so doing, they were able to create a building plot. What they left was a blank canvass and a twenty metre fence with three climbing ivy (as if they didn't have enough). It will take years to mature. When the borders are sorted I plan to add a cherry, perhaps a damson too, eventually I'll have my own little orchard.

In the meantime, I've press-ganged the teenagers into helping. Yesterday I watched the two of them, six feet tall now, laughing as one sprayed the panels and the other dabbed his brush with a practiced incompetence. Dylan rushed amongst them, fighting monsters and insisting they hurry. Me and Dad are going to camp here tonight, he said. Are you sure, his brothers asked?  Of course we are, Dylan cried, we're going to camp hear for years and years, aren't we Dad?

As I write this post Dylan is asleep in his bag and my back is easing from eight hours on a thin mat. In the tent we read stories, listened to the rain, and talked of how one day he'll be as big as his brothers. But it was only as I tiptoed past the new the trees that I made the connection.

I could have bought something easier: faster growing, less expensive, simpler to mange -  plants with a more instant gratification. These trees will take years, I thought; I'll be in my dotage before they're at their best. What's more, I know next to nothing about growing fruit. My dark side said, I'll probably get it all wrong...

But it can't be that difficult surely? They are pretty robust things are fruit trees. No doubt, they'll need some pruning, the espalier especially, and I expect I'll be as frustrated by their progress as I'm delighted by their blossom. Frankly, fruit will be a bonus. More than anything I know they'll take time, care, and a commitment to place that I hadn't expected to make.

And with that thought, I felt more at home than I have for months.

Director of fun

From time to time most regular bloggers will receive emails from marketing agencies offering to sponsor or place advertising on their blog. Occasionally I've been asked to do product reviews, including an offer from someone in Thailand who had an interesting take on what the bike shed was all about. I let all these pass.

But earlier this year I received an email from Nicky, who described herself as personal assistant to Sam Pointon, the Director of  Fun at the National railway Museum in York. Sam had a parcel he would like to send me if I would forward my address. The email looked genuine and I was intrigued, so I phoned the museum which confirmed they did indeed have such a director.

A week or so later my parcel arrived: it included a stick of rock, a signed photo and letter from Sam himself. Sam, who is seven years old, had been 'appointed' as Director of Fun to encourage parents and children to visit the museum by injecting some life into their marketing. His letter asked if I might encourage readers of my blog to join in.

What a great idea! And as a public relations exercise it has been a huge success. Sam's appointment was perfect for those light hearted news items and if you Google him you can see just how much coverage he has achieved. As my small contribution to his success I'm going to make an exception to my rule of not accepting sponsorship and encourage you to visit their website, if not the museum itself.

Of course, people warm to the idea of a six year old directing the campaigns of a stuffy old museum. But as I sat today conducting staff appraisals for the legal and corporate department that I lead, I did think I ought to embrace the idea more fully. My team are fantastic, but let's be honest, corporate governance isn't exactly the stuff of laughter, even if we do ditch our ties on a Friday. I asked for ideas.

Perhaps we could sign the share certificates with a child's handwriting? Maybe Dylan could stand in for me occasionally. Someone suggested inserting those smiley symbols into the annual report and accounts :-) Or in the present climate, more like :-( 

Our ideas were pretty lame. I suspect we take comfort from our contracts and mergers, the piles of documents waiting to be to filed. What's more, the business I work for is deeply suspicious of anything less than formal; to receive a light hearted memo is rare, as if humour denotes a lack of commitment, or threatens to trivialise what is universally regarded as a 'serious business'. That's sad in its way.

On the other hand, I must be part of that culture too. For there is little that fills me with more dread than the thought of fully grown Director of Fun. I can picture them now, dreaming up with jolly ideas for corporate engagement: singalong-a-brainstorm, fancy dress Fridays, emails that open with a jingle, sponsoring people's blogs....

On reflection, I'll let that one pass as well.

A new breed.

I wonder if there is any greater display of eccentricity than the annual exhibition of the Amateur Entomologist Society? It is held at Kempton Park every October and attracts thousands of butterfly, bee, beetle and stick insect enthusiast. There is much tweed in evidence, a fair number of spotty youths with shortish trousers and many of all ages who could do with paying more attention to their personal hygiene.

Not that I fall into any of those categories. But I must admit to being easily seduced by a fine display of hawk moths, and show me a perfect  specimen of Actias Luna (don't worry, detail not really important) and my wallet is out before ... well before I've told Jane anyway.

I first went to the exhibition when I was eleven - in the days when it was held in Kensington. In some ways not much has changed: the same interest groups (coleopterist, lepidopterists, odanatists, dipterists) proudly manning the displays of their somewhat peculiar passions; the same collector types drooling over second hand copies of Wayside and Woodland Beetles at £200; the same ruddy faced evangelicals promoting the 'bug club' for young entomologist.

I suppose there are fewer academic displays now (hardly any in fact); it's become more of trade show than a scientific gathering. But there were still little gems that still made me smile.  Like the guy who announced to the crowd - if anyone would like to know more about nematodes, I'll be free to give advice later.  Or the lady enquiring at the Watkins and Doncaster stand, Do you still have your shop in The Strand?  No madam, it closed before the war.  Pity, I was thinking of visiting for a moth trap...


But one difference was evident - a new breed of 'goth entomologists' threatening to usurp the resident nerds. Goth males were invariably in their late-teens or early twenties, resembling rejects from Games Workshop: multiple piercings, dagger tattoos and complexions that could do with more sun. Behaviourally, they made a bee line (entomology pun there) for the spider and scorpion dealers, after which, having stocked up nymphs and blowflies, they went looking for suitable mates.

And there appeared to be no shortage of stout females in black smocks - also with multiple piercings, dagger tattoos and complexions that could do with more sun.  Judging by the number copping off in the grounds of Kempton Park, I'd say breeding conditions were excellent and a good time was had by all.

On reflection, I'm not sure they're really very different.

As I walked to the car one of them was lying across the path, his head in a bush, groaning. Excuse me? I said testily, stepped over his Doc Martins and expecting a drunken grunt for my trouble. Oh, I'm so sorry, he replied in immaculate English... it's fascinating in there: dozens of larvae in about their third instar I'd say, and some very interesting beetles too. Woud you like a look...  I laughed all the way home.

Thoughts on food and sex

My blog today was going to be about food, but pondering what to write my mind drifted back to one of the first writing courses I attended...

It was more of a retreat than a course. We were sitting in the common room, a group of twelve students and a tutor-cum-facilitator. The wine was open and we'd exchanged pleasantries. What plans did we have, our tutor asked?

There came the usual replies.

One lady was writing prose poems in memory of her son; another was finishing the second volume of her historic trilogy; a doctor from Leicester was writing a farce about the Health Service - a consultant had been caught pissing in the sink; his gay lover who chaired the disciplinary panel was being bribed by a nurse with Munchausen's syndrome who was slowly...

Everyone laughed and I was nervous of explaining my modest goals. But as I came to speak I was interrupted by a very stout lady with a thick Germanic accent.

'I am coming here to write about the sex.'

There was a short pause in the chatter.

'How interesting,' the tutor replied. 'Feminism is such a challenging subject.'

A longer pause.

'I am not wanting these woman issues. I am wanting the sex.'

The chink of wine glasses on the coffee table; eyes to ceiling, window, floor...

'I'm sorry, I don't quite understand?' The tutor filled her glass.

'It is simple; I am only liking the fucking.'

The silence which followed is one of the great comedy moments of my lifetime. It is beyond my powers to describe the excruciating discomfort of those present. Eventually an elderly lady piped up.

'Might I say, isn't that a bit pornographic. I mean, sex in it's wider context is one thing, and passion as part the range human emotions goes as far back as Shakespeare... '

'No, I am only wanting the sex.'

By now I was holding my sides and the doctor from Leicester was frantically taking notes.

The German lady went on to try and make a serious point. She wanted, she said, to write about sex, and specifically the sexual act. What's more she wanted to write about it directly, not by use of context, euphemism or symbolism. This was difficult and most writers bottled out. She continued.

'It is like in writing about the food. The cooks they write about the history and the region and the preparations - but I want to know about the food. I want to know how it is tasting. I want to know what it makes my mouth feel. This is what we need with the sex is it not?'

By the end of her speech our tutor had recovered her composure. 'That sounds very challenging,' she said in a jolly voice. 'Particularity is one of the essentials of good writing. I'm sure we'll all be very interested to hear how you get on.'

And we were too. Each evening a few students would read from the work they'd written that day. The doctor made us laugh with his farce, there were nods of sympathy for the prose poems, and suitably constructive feedback on the second volume of the trilogy.

Sometimes the whole group would gather - more often it was just a few of us. But there was a full house for the night our German friend was due to read. Wine glasses were quickly filled as she opened her folder to speak...

'I have not been doing very much the fucking. So I read you about my favourite food!'

There was an audible sigh - of relief or disappointment, I couldn't possibly say.

Driving North

I am typing this post in the car as Jane drives us for a weekend in the Peak District. I'm using a Samsung notebook which cost less than £300 and has more computing capacity than had my company's mainframe of not that long ago. I've checked my emails, replied to some comments on the blog, transferred some cash between bank accounts and replayed the video of Dylan that I edited last week on this same machine: stunning.

I love computers. Without my PC I would not be interested in, or much good at, writing; I would read less, have fewer friends and be required to go Christmas shopping on a weekend. On a more serious level I would have little or no access to news and information other than through the popular media. And as for reference, if I was lucky, I might have a set of dusty encyclopaedias, decades out of date. The chances are you feel the same because you are reading a blog – and we've all come a long way since people thought using the internet to research an essay was somehow cheating.

Fourteen years ago, I was 'volunteered' for a study tour in the US. The brief was to research newspapers on the internet and write a report on its implications for the UK. I went to visit Apple and Microsoft as well a dozen newspapers that were pioneering online news and bulletin boards (does anyone remember those?). At that time, computer ownership in the US was nearing 10% of households, and cutting edge performance meant a dial up modem and a browser called Netscape Navigator.

When I returned from the States I wrote my report. Nobody took much notice, which was probably just as well. Even my better projections have been surpassed many times over. I remember how experts at the time were predicting computer ownership might one day be as high as 30% of households. And mainstays of today's internet were simply not contemplated: my boys barely function without Wikipedia, eBay and Facebook. It says something about the speed of development that as I typed the last sentence my spell checker recognised Wikipedia and eBay but not Facebook (I'm using Word 2007).

'Where will it all end,' is a common refrain of my father in law. I have no idea – my experience in the States taught me not to predict too far ahead - the only certainty it seems is that technology will take us further than we expect and more quickly too. Whatever happens I hope to embrace it – indeed it is one of my ambitions to become a sad old git who is also a whizz on whatever gadgetry we have by then.

That juxtaposition probably sums me up. I've spent all week at my PC but this weekend I want to walk on the moors; I want to go climbing with my son - to let him touch and smell the same Derbyshire gritstone that was such a part of my youth – and I don't want technology to dull the experience. Blogging in this context feels like an intrusion.

Maybe that feeling offers us the best clue as to the true limits of technology. For I suspect it lies more in our values and desires, than in the constraints of processing power or designers' imaginations. Despite my love affair with computers, there are times when I simply want a break.

Jargon buster

In my office we no longer increase our sales, we drive them. And it's been years since we compared anything, preferring instead to benchmark before engaging with customers – usually to discuss our learnings.

Jargon is common in the workplace, and as a writer I am probably over sensitive to it. In truth most managers know it for what it is - when I was a trainer I used to get work groups to play buzzword bingo and it was always taken as good fun.

Yesterday I came across this website which made me smile. On the first page alone I particularly liked Alpha Geek as the new name for head of Information Technology, and adhocracy, for minimally structured business where teams operate as needed. If you work in an office, I defy you not to laugh.

Jargon shouldn't be confused with technical language. We need this to be specific without being verbose. So poets talk of a villanelle and not a verse with a dual rhyming scheme in which the first and third lines of the first stanza are rhyming refrains that alternate.... In kayaking we use terms like Bow Rudder of Cartwheel; music has its equivalent terminology as have thousands of other activities. These are precise and technical words – they might be unrecognisable by outsiders, but they are not jargon.

Neither too is jargon the same as shorthand, or slang. The other day on a bird watching website there was talk of an Unstreaked Acro – after much searching I realised this referred to an un-marked Acrocephalus Warbler, a rare aberration of a species. Similarly the birders in Pembrokeshire talk of Manxies (Manx Shearwaters) and Ring Tails (young Hen Harriers). There phrases are irritating and cliquey at times, but they are not fully fledged (ha ha) jargon.

Jargon is lazy and imprecise. Whilst the speaker may know what they mean, they are assuming everybody else does too - and in making that assumption they usually omit vital information.

Take for example the trend in our office to engage with clients, or even worse, to interface. Of course, I know this means we have had some sort of discussion. But are we at the early stages of negotiations, or are we nearing Heads of Terms? Are the discussions going well, or have they stalled over commercial differences? Simply saying we are engaged gives me none of this important information. It's the same with driving sales. How are we planning to drive them, in what direction and by which route?

Jargon is part of office life, and it doesn't pay to get overly snobby about it. But it's important to be on our guard, especially outside the workplace. For in the hands of politicians, bankers and the like, it is a powerful tool for avoiding commitment. Jargon allows politicians to give the impression of having answered a question, when in reality they've told you very little and made themselves look smart in the process. And believe me, there is a whole army of spin doctors – both corporate and political - who make a living out of scripting this bullshit.

Remember remember

Bedtime - uncompleted. M Charlton circa 1992

Remember remember the fifth of November

Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason why gunpowder, treason,

Should ever be forgot.

I've never been a fan of Guy Fawkes Night. When I was a child it marked the start of winter, the dark nights and the prospect of snow. Living in the North East, snow meant long days locked in the house with little to do, and my mother urging silence in case we woke up Dad. There seemed little to celebrate in that, but there was more to it.

My father was a policeman. To him, fireworks meant 'trouble'. They were something the 'bad lads' played with; they were synonymous with delinquents and hassle - bangers! were the stuff of demons. Short tempered at the best of times, my father would become fractious as the day neared; you could feel the tension building, for all the wrong reasons.

It would have been better if he had simply refused to play along. But perhaps feeling he ought to make an effort he would buy the smallest box of Standard Fireworks and we'd huddle in the garden to watch the 'show', before he went to work. I remember once, he lit them all in tandem - we were back in the house within three minutes!

As a teenager, fireworks ranked alongside cigarettes and cider as something you hid from your parents. For a few years they held a certain rebellious fascination; we'd go down the beach and set off rockets and occasionally try our hand at home made incendiaries. But always a sense of guilt remained; I could never bring myself properly to join in the fun.

Once, travelling on a bus with some friends, they let off a fire-cracker concealed in a cigarette. The bus driver thought it was an arson attack and drove immediately to the police station - where my father was on duty! I walked off the bus with most of the passengers - to be fair, I had taken no part in the prank - but two of my friends were dragged into the station for questioning and a stern caution. For weeks I was convinced my father would find out; I'd been with the 'bad lads', playing with fire.

Playing with fire: that's a phrase which makes me uneasy too. When I was very small - about seven I think - my father beat me and my brother so badly we were kept off school because of our bruises. Our 'crime' was playing with matches. I often wonder about that incident - for it was around that time there was an enormous fire in a department store in Newcastle; my father had been one of the officers in charge, it was huge event and he felt the strain. Soon after he had what I now realise was a mild nervous breakdown. Bonfires always brought back memories.

I still feel uneasy over fireworks. The new super rockets and huge display packs are somehow too grand. I can't help but think of them as a vulgar waste of money in a world where people are starving - I know that's a touch pompous but it is how I feel. And at the other extreme, sparklers never deliver on the promise of their name - smiles fizzle out before the flame dies and I constantly worry the kids will burn their hands. Of the few fireworks I did like as a child, most are now illegal: does anyone remember London Lights (a sort of bright match which burned a fierce red) or Jumping Jacks or Chinese Crackers.

My sense of guilt has some echos in the Powder Plot itself - after all, Mr Fawkes and his associates went to the Tower for their crimes. There is also a certain symmetry in that the perpetrators were Catholics, who stereotypically carry guilt as if it were a matter of faith. It took the Establishment 200 years or so to forgive them their conspiracy - we still won't contemplate a Catholic monarch. So perhaps I am not entirely alone in my unease.

That said, the concept of blowing up parliament and most of the aristocracy has its appeal...

Sony Reader

I dusted off my Sony Book Reader the other day - it's been a bit unloved over the winter. 

I bought it last autumn, from one of the first batches in the UK, and the only time I can remember wanting to be a gadget pioneer. The idea of carrying round a hundred or so books in such a small package seemed neat. I was also interested in the technology, particularly as I work in the newspaper and magazine industry; there'd been a lot of hype that e-readers like this would be the end of newspapers. Two hundred quid was a ridiculous price, but hey, I'd just had a bonus.

I liked the e-reader: it has a bright paper-like screen, it feels pretty funky, and after you get the hang of it, I'd say it is easier to read than most books.  The reader comes in a leather case designed to makes it feel like a paperback, but I actually prefer to use it out of the case. It's light and easy to hold, you can increase the font size (handy if you've lost your glasses), bookmark pages to read again later; skip between books and a handful of other nifty features. I took it on a camping trip – it was great; low weight and it didn't get damp or battered. If you want to, you can download and listen to music while you read; I haven't tried. It also stores photographs, though the screen is only black and white. 

There are other benefits that I hadn't anticipated. Like when I'm reading in bed and Jane decides to cuddle under my arm as she drops off. Nice and cosy, but it's awkward to hold a book in one hand while dutifully stroking your partner's hair with the other - no problem with the e-reader, just click to turn a page!  It displays PDFs and Word documents too, handy if you have large files to read on the train. (I suspect I'm one of very few people in the world with reports from the Office of Fair Trading on their e-reader - how dull am I).  And if you search the web for about two minutes, there are hundreds of free e-books - one click and you can download every Agatha Christie novel in a zip file (Mmm.. not sure that's a benefit). The only problem with the web is that virtually all the free e-books are old classics; Australian web sites have slightly more contemporary titles - something to do with the copyright laws. I suppose as e-readers become more popular there will be scope for person to person file transfer - no different to passing on a paperback really. Lastly, I store copies of my own writing on it, which points the way to the possibility of self publishing e-books, or sharing writing with groups and friends. 

More recently, Amazon has launched a new version of its e-reader, the Kindle – it has a bigger screen and the hype suggested that it would eventually replace the newspaper as we know it. Not for a while yet, I suspect, but I doubt there's a major newspaper that isn't watching developments very closely. On-line newspapers have improved beyond recognition since I went to the US in 1996 to see the first ones in production. But they are more like web-site than newspapers as we know them, and there is no evidence that they are stealing large numbers of traditional readers. Will more basic page downloads to an e-reader have wider appeal? I think they might – and they might be a better vehicle for selling advertising; the biggest barrier to profitable online publishing. There are limitations to e-readers (they don't work well for reference books; no colour) and they are not a substitute for a computer, (no search facility, no hyperlinks, no online comments or feed-reader) but then, other than colour photographs, newspapers don't have these features either.

So all in all, it's a pretty cool bit of kit, and about time I got rid of all those old paperbacks, right? 

Well yes... except there's a problem. You see, despite paying £200 for the e-reader I can't bring myself to pay £6 for an electronic book! At first I thought this was because the Sony e-book catalogue was limited; and certainly their main agent, the Waterstone's website, is dreadful to use. But it wasn't just that, I buy at least a book a week and there were plenty I could have bought as e-books. It's just that somehow, paying for an electronic file instead of owning the physical copy, feels like bad value. There's not much logic in this – I seldom read books twice, they clutter up the place (a little self-deception here, for in truth I take pleasure in my bookshelves) and it would be more convenient to file them on the e-reader. It's also inconsistent with my attitude to other digital technologies: I download music, I take hundreds of digital photos and seldom print any off (I always hated that sticking in photo-albums), and I don't keep hard copies of my writing. I've even digitised most of my paintings. But no matter how many times I remind myself of this (especially as my cursor hovers over the click to buy button) I always chose the hard copy version. 

So there you have it, when it comes to books, it seems that old habits die hard. In the meantime, I find it makes a convenient mouse mat for my netbook.

Imagination and drive

Catherine came to work in my office two summers ago. She was a law student, studying at Bristol University and we offered her a summer placement. She was so diligent and popular that we asked her to come back last summer; she returned for five months before setting off to travel for the remainder of her gap year.

In a sense, there is nothing particularly special about what Catherine is doing. Like many young people, she's taking the opportunity to explore the world (and herself) before settling down to a career and the daily grind. In the Sixties the Hippie Trail was the equivalent; after Iran closed its borders my generation went Inter-Railing or volunteered for Camp America; today's young travellers have wider horizons, but their objectives are much their same.

Catherine is in an enviable position: she's young, intelligent, unburdened by the responsibilities we acquire as we get older, she's even got a job to come back to. So isn't it fairly easy to do what she's doing, and why am I going on about it?

Because her travels reminds me of something I said years ago. I was lamenting how so many people seemed content to do so little with their lives, even when they had the opportunity. Not everyone could be a famous explorer (or writer, or painter, detective, whatever) , but it seemed to me that most people limited their horizons for lack of even trying. 'What they need,' I said (with astonishing arrogance, now I look back), 'is more imagination and drive.' My friends used to rib me about that comment, and though I no doubt deserved to be taken down a peg or ten, I'd still maintain there is some truth in it. Of course, it takes a whole lot more besides, but that's the subject of another post to come soon...

In the meantime Catherine sends the occasional email to the office. We've all enjoyed hearing about her adventures: partying at Mexican carnivals, trekking the forests of Costa Rica, visiting Machu Picchu, staying with the water people in Bolivia, learning the tango in Buenos Aires, relaxing at the vineyards in Santiago, rafting and skydiving in New Zealand, swimming with dolphins and diving on the Great Barrier Reef...

What I admire most about her travels, is not that she's doing something so entirely extraordinary or ground breaking. I'm not even particularly taken by the idea of 'world travelling'; if I had the same opportunity as her I'd probably choose to spend it writing in a mythical village in northern Italy. No, it's not so much what she's doing, as her attitude and approach that I find inspiring: the meticulous planning she put into the trip; the way she raised the money to fund it; the itinerary she chose (interestingly not Bali or Goa); the vision to consider such a wide range of experiences and the determination to achieve them.

Whenever she sends an email I show it to my teenage boys. They happen to go to the same school that Catherine attended (State Comprehensive, though I'd say a good one) - it won't be long before they're off and I'm bereft at their leaving. I hope her emails are an inspiration to them; not to copy her exactly, but to consider what might be possible and how with the right balance of effort and enterprise it might be achieved.

Catherine returns in June. She's coming back to our office for few months then it's law school and and the long hours of a training contract at a top solicitors in Bristol. Compared to many she is extremely fortunate (most of us are, when we come to think of it, especially on global scale) but I'd say she deserves her success. She's worked incredibly hard, but that's not all; to my mind, her most laudable qualities are what I meant, all those years ago, by imagination and drive.

Who we are and what we do

In his new book, The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work, Alain De Botton reflects on the intricacies of biscuit manufacture. He wittily observes the minute sub divisions of labour necessary for the launch of a new range of indulgent chocolate fancies, Moments. And he wonders, in the face of such absurdities, how we can possibly find meaning in the modern workplace.

De Botton's essay made me smile; almost certainly because the most successful humour plays on our sympathy with the objects of our laughter. His meditations rang true, not least because of the high minded claims that pass for 'mission and purpose' in my own profession.

For years I told myself that distributing newspapers was a vital cog in the wheel of a diverse and pluralist democracy. Whereas now, I passionately believe that newspapers -and especially the quality titles - tell us next to nothing of the truth. Worse, they present a veneer of facts, which (to stretch the metaphor) deter us from questioning the rather dodgy chipboard underneath.

Some years ago I attended one of those excruciating management sessions when you write down six words to describe yourself. My list went something like: father, painter, kayaker, climber, husband, thinker. My new boss asked, 'But what about work?' What about it, I replied. We didn't get on.

The more surprising outcome was that he was sacked and I prospered. A fact, which I like to think demonstrates that truth to yourself can sometimes - just sometimes - win out over bullshit.

In the world of Middle England's mid-size PLCs, defining ourselves by our professions is a pretty shallow existence. And yet, the higher up the corporate ladder we get, the more tempting it is to succumb. In much the same way that crap television and junk food provides us with instant if temporary gratification, our careers provide us with an easy and equally unsatisfying answer to the question of 'who we are and what we do.'

As if by epilogue to these thoughts I walked today along the green lane to Tretower. The house at its beginning is owned by Dick Renshaw, a famous climber, the first man to climb the South East ridge of Dunagiri. A friend told me he had taken up kayaking, paddling some of the hardest if obscure white water rivers in Wales; as we passed this morning, wooden sculptures were in progress in his garden.

I wondered if he had found meaning in his career - how indeed, he defined it - and whether, living aside a two thousand-year-old Roman Road, was inspiration to live more fully, or a cursed reminder of our own insignificance.

Stanage Edge

I'm back again, scrabbling to find my kit, sheltering under the tailgate as I change into Ron Hills and pull on a thermal vest. My map flaps in the wind - it's the wrong one anyway so I shove it back in the rucksack. I'd given Jane directions to get here; take the road by Ladybower resevoir, go up the hill and there should be a pull in by a sandy track heading up to the moors.  It hadn't changed since I last came here; nor had the wind, bitterly cold as it always seemed to be. I pull on a hat, stuff my cagoule in the bum bag and set off.  

It's twenty years since I ran on Stanage Edge and yet it is all so familiar: the dry smell of the grit, the rough friction of the stones, the squelch of the rich chocolate peat when I miss my footing.  As I run up the hill, the sun begins to break through the mist; by the time I am at the summit of Stanage End, the sky is a pale blue. The edge stretches ahead of me, I take off my hat and pause a moment to get my bearings.  A grouse takes flight from the heather, it's red wattles flapping as it crash-lands a few yards away. 

Stanage is the longest of the gritstone edges, a five mile escarpment running from Bamford to the moors above Hathersage.  It is famous for its rock climbs, but despite being a climber for many years I never much liked it as a crag. To me, it was always best as a place to run.  As I start to move again, I remember the reason why I loved it so much.   

It is not so much the landscape, though I like the feel of these open moors looking down on the greener valleys of the Peak District. It is something about the process of running here that is its special joy. You have to place your feet carefully, plan your route between the boulders and the peat - skip up rocks, jump down others, dash through the bogs - and you have to do this at speed, for traversing the ground at pace is what gives running its meaning.  As I run past miles of boulders and soft peat I am conscious of every step and how it feels; I am conscious too of the irony that running in such a beautiful place it is the terrain underfoot that matters most. 

I'm also aware that the faster I run, the more attuned I become to the choices, the decisions seeming to flow, each step leading effortlessly to the next. I find myself thinking of the path as if it were a river: I'm scouting its rapids, adjusting my line, going wrong then putting it right - becoming one with the water. As I reach the main climbing area I have found a natural rhythm, a balance of speed and awareness that for the time being, is all that matters. 

I notice the walkers don't seem to say anything to me; I am something to be avoided, stood aside from as I pass. It is the climbers who greet me, nods, waves, the odd shout of encouragement. Perhaps they too know something of how, though intense effort, we can transcend the particularity of our situation - those who have climbed for long enough would, I think, recognise what I am talking about. The last miles pass without any sense of effort.   

As I start the descent towards Burbage rocks I can see Jane waiting with the car. The last time I ran this route she was here too, on that occasion I would go on, past Burgabe, Froggat, Curbar, Gardoms and Birchins, to finish after fifteen miles at the Robin Hood Inn. But that was twenty years ago, and though returning is one of my chief delights, I know that some things can never come again. 

It's not easy being green...

I could do a whole spoof here about the effects of rising water temperatures on the bio-sphere... the need for a sustainable aquatic environment... the imminent and very real threat to population levels (in one week our global population has dropped by 33%)... the impact of over consumption of rich food stuffs... the age of the stupid; oh why didn't we do something when we could? 

But I won't, because Jane is upset and I bought her the darn thing for Christmas, so it's partly my fault.  And tomorrow we have to change half the water, buy an algae filter and quietly replace 'Dylan Fish' before his namesake notices he's gone.  And I thought goldfish were simple.

How did that song by Van Morrison go?

You’ll come to love both.

The bothy at Moel Prysgau

I remember the first time I drove through Abergwesyn Pass. It was spring and I was living in Cardiff, questioning my decision to move to Wales after a cold grey winter. I wasn't happy in the city, but didn't feel at home in the hills either. Much of South Wales seemed grim; even the Brecon Beacons lacked the stillness I had come to love in my home county of Northumberland. I must have mentioned something of the sort in the office.

Rodger was having none of it. 'I tell you, Wales is the most beautiful and the most ugly country in the world – and you'll come to love both.' Rodger lived above Merthyr, a proper Valleys boy who'd been a coach driver for years and now worked for the local newspaper, though he missed his time on the road. His great delight was to visit customers in Carmarthen or Cardigan – very important area for us but – indeed, he insisted on 'going west' at least once a week.

 'You come with me to make some calls,' he insisted, 'then you'll see.'

We drove the mountain road from Rhayader to Aberystwyth, stopped for quick coffee with a newsagent in town, then – work completed for the day - headed south to Aberaeron. Rodger was on a mission; he drove me to Lampeter, to Dolaucothi, to the wonderful village of Caio (still my favourite place in Wales) and then, by yet another double back, to Tregaron and the road to Llanwrtyd. 'Now is this a mess, or what?' he asked as we drove through an area of young forestry. I murmured agreement, though in truth I took little notice, being somewhat car sick by that point. 'Just you wait,' he said. 'The best pass in Wales is over this hill.'

The Abergwesyn pass is a near perfect glacial valley, cutting deep into the hills from the hamlet of Abergwesyn towards the Llyn Brianne dam and the Mid Wales forests. I was there again this morning; driving through the ancient deciduous trees at the start of the gorge. There was ice on the road, the northern slopes still in shadow by mid morning; on the southern side the bracken was drying in the sun; two ravens were harrying a buzzard. It is twenty years since Rodger took me here, I have driven and cycled this road dozens of times since, and still it takes my breath.

Abergwesyn is owned by the National Trust, consequently it has been saved from the vandalism wrought on the hills beyond. At the head of the pass is a steep road where the forestry begins – appropriately, it is known as the Devil's Staircase. From here westward, swathes of fir trees cloak the hills, the only respite to the monotony being the fell-clearance areas and the Dolgoch hostel, nestling in an oasis of bog that was presumably too awkward to plant. A huge area of land between here and Tregaron has been spoiled – some would say ruined – for what I suspect was little more than politics and the quasi- economics of the forestry commission; but what do I know? 

What I do know, is that the fir trees are every bit as ugly and despoiling as the industrial detritus that litters the Rhondda. And this is only one small area of the Mid Wales forests. Huge areas of the Cambrian Mountains have suffered the same fate, and sadly I suspect it will be repeated – though today it is wind farms more than trees that the politicians want. What was it Rodger said about Wales being the most ugly country…?

And yet I still love this area. Today, I walked to the bothy at Moel Prysgau. It is miles from any tarmac, approached by the old drove road to Strata Florida. The path is stubbornly defiant; it hugs the river, sometimes this side, sometimes that - time and again you have to wade through to stay with it. In a sense it is the reverse of walking the hills of the South Wales Valleys – here the dereliction is above you, not below. 

A few miles in and the trees take over, the paths become forest roads, complete with junctions and rights of way; the views become sporadic. Yet there is remoteness here, a stillness that saves the landscape despite our worst efforts. My son Daniel was with me today, but we walked much of the way without talking. Towards the end of the walk we came to a small boggy pool in a clearing, two geese floated serenely on the water, untroubled by our watching. 'Do you want to chat? I asked.

'I'm good,' he replied. 'It's the silence that I like the most.'

Mid Wales - an object lesson in how to ruin a landscape?

Blogging at its best

The Parrog - well known birding site, Pembrokeshire

Blogs come in many forms, and there's an ever increasing array of features and gizmos for those who care to use them. But sometimes, the simplest ideas are the best.

One of my favourite blogs is Pembroke Birds; as its title suggests, it's dedicated to bird watching in Pembrokeshire. The content is as plain as its description; there are no fancy videos, few photographs and little in the way of obvious editorial intervention. I'm not even particularly keen on birding, other than watching the crow and starling roosts near my house in Wales - and yet I look at this blog every day.

The idea is simple: birders from around the county post their sightings on a daily basis. Yesterday, there were reports of a barnacle goose, marsh harriers, common sandpipers, guillemot, redstart, chough and ssshhhh… dartford warblers. And earlier this week, amongst dozens of other sightings: a rare cattle egret, a merlin, some goshawks, short eared owls, woodpeckers and the first wheatears of spring.

I've learned too that Richard D. has been birding on the north coast, Greg and Lisa have visited Ramsey, Lydon cancelled the field trip, Richard C. has been to Angle and my favourite regular allthingsgood,cliff had a fine afternoon photographing snow buntings. I couldn't put a face to any of these names though I must have met a few – walking on the coast path, carrying my binoculars, I'm regularly greeted by the question: 'Anything on the web site today?' No need to ask which site they mean.

There are regular locations for reports – The Gann, Marloes Mere, Tefeiddan Common, Sandy Haven Pill. I find myself wondering (and worrying) about what's happening at each, what birds have been spotted and who's been out looking. Checking in each day, I'm reassured and feel included even though I'm often hundreds of miles away – a sort of 'twitter' for twitchers perhaps.

Gradually, a picture emerges of a group of people who are passionate about where they live, about its landscape and the wildlife it cradles. There's a community spirit to the blog – even the odd frisson (as happened recently when there appeared to be a wilful delay in the reporting of an extremely rare falcon) –though more often it's good natured banter.

I like people who have passions, who take a deep interest in an aspect of life, no matter how irrelevant it may seem to others. And I like the way the Pembrokeshire birders use their blog, building a collective knowledge and sharing it, generously, with others. That seems to me to be blogging at its best.

Never too old

My friend (and blog follower) Sara writes in her erudite blog that we are never too old to regain lost skills. She says there is a mindset that believes we peak early, especially at physical skills, and that this mindset is rubbish! I feel like I want to disagree, but that's probably because I'm a bit of a pedant, or maybe more truthfully, because I'm nursing a torn hamstring after taking up running again. However, her central point – that there is no reason why age should deny sporting excellence – is well made, and in my case, a timely reminder as I ponder what next.

It's significant, I think, that Sara's return was to horse riding – a perfect example of what I call a piloting sport. Piloting sports can involve considerable skill and physical fitness but providing the 'motor power' is not the job of the participant – so motor racing is a piloting sport, so is sailing, show jumping, etc. These seem to me to offer greater possibility as 'sports for life' with the opportunity to continue performing at a high standard as we get older – certainly, more so than say, rugby, gymnastics or basketball. 

My grandfather took up sailing in his fifties and gliding soon after. He used to say, somewhat disingenuously, that anyone could take up these sports, no matter how decrepit they were; perhaps so, but in his case he won many trophies against younger crews and stayed active in both sports until he died aged eighty four.

Sports of skill and accuracy regularly provide champions with no respect for age. Snooker has long list of older greats – think, Ray Reardon and Joe Davies – as has bowls, darts and even golf (though less so). When I was marginally involved in sports funding for Wales it used to make me smile that the Welsh Quoits Association was given a grant each year, but hey, why not?

Outdoor pursuits have similar possibilities, particularly where experience is as important for your chances of success as physical prowess. Many mountaineers reach their peak (ha) as they get a little older; Doug Scott, Kurt Diemberger, Reinhold Messner, Don Whillans and legions of others. Closer to home, my friend and one time coach, Stuart Woodward, was kayaking some of the world's largest rivers in his forties and continues to do so fifteen years later.

Indeed, where endurance is concerned there is evidence that being older is an advantage. Marathon runners tend to peak in their early thirties and ultra distance runners even later. Mike Cudahy, the first man to run the Pennine Way in under three days – an astonishing feat when you think about it – did so, aged forty five. His physical and mental preparation is described in his excellent book, Wild Trails to Far Horizons and it's an inspiration for anyone returning to run. Similarly, Joss Naylor the infamous fell runner was setting records well into his fifties that would stand for decades.

And what of cycling? The fact is, the very best cyclists are relatively young, and at the elite level I don't think that Sara's hypothesis is true – Anno Domini takes its toll on power and heart rate, no matter how many hours we put in. But one of the wonderful characteristics of cycling is the way it attracts and retains its enthusiasts for life. They say you never forget how to ride a bike, and that's amply demonstrated in my club where we have active members ranging from eight to eighty. One old boy, who looks at times like he's about to keel over, regularly tells me about the latest 200 kilometre ride he's just completed.

As for me, yes I'm still nursing the hamstring after it pinged in my sixth week of running following a seven year layoff. But that aside, Sara is right, it's surprising how the old skills come back and how rewarding it feels too. I no longer think of personal bests, at least not in terms of minutes per mile – but there's still much I'd like to do: such as running those few sections of the Pembroke Coast that I've yet to complete. And perhaps the long ridge above Llantony, the one that bounds the Golden Valley and ends at Gospel Pass – I picture myself running there at dawn, the path dropping towards Hay Bluff, mist thinning as the sun rises... An excellence of sorts.

Wiltshire Sundays

Today, spring arrived in Wiltshire; a milky blue sky, crocuses in bloom and a woodpecker scuttling up the tree outside our house.

Where should we go, I asked; it's forecast for eighteen degrees?

'Let's not go far,' said Jane, and my heart sank.

For the problem with North Wiltshire is, dare I say it, there just isn't that much to do. There aren't any beaches, there are no mountains to speak of and open countryside is hard to find – what little there is tends to be over used and managed to the point that it loses any sense of nature (follow the blue dots or, for a more challenging walk, the red ones). I suppose it's pleasant enough dawdling through the lanes and stopping at ye-olde-tea-shoppes, but on a day like today you know the roads will be full of Sunday-drivers, hooting at each other in the tight lane by the garden centre. In any case, we need to walk the dog.

We went through the usual options: so and so woods (too busy); so and so gardens (too far); so and so country park (too tame); we could always go to the Cotswolds (oh God, please no). It's ironic that for someone who'd put landscape at the very top of his priorities, I live in an area which I dislike. 

That's a bit harsh, I don't actively dislike it here; I just think it's all second rate, and days like today rub it in. If we'd been in Wales, I could have reeled off a dozen options, and whichever we'd chosen I'd be scurrying about to get everyone ready, not wanting to miss the best of the morning. As it was we were still undecided after a leisurely breakfast.

We filled our day in the end. I took the boys to the climbing wall; we visited a National Trust garden billed as Wiltshire's best kept secret (proves my point) and I went for a run through Corsham Court Estate as the sun started to dip. All pleasant enough, and no doubt a delight to many – but I can't help feeling unfulfilled. 

The truth is, I've lived here thirteen years and yet I can only think of two or three places that truly lift my spirit. Perhaps I should look harder – or differently – perhaps I should stop searching for what is never going to be and appreciate Wiltshire for what it is? Maybe then I'll have more enthusiasm; maybe then I'd be scurrying around as soon as the dawn chorus woke me.

On the other hand, if we went to Wales next weekend... we could climb Carn Lleiddi, or walk the cliffs at Ceibwr, or kayak to Ramsey, or look for dolphins at Strumble, or build a beach fire at Abermawr, or watch the sun set over Presseli…

Home, as they say, is where the heart is.

Friends, Romans, Citizens

My friend Ian once said you know a true friend when you ring them at three in the morning and say your car's broken down in the snow. Thankfully that's not happened yet, but I did email him to ask if he fancied driving five hundred miles to ride as my co-pilot in the World Mountain Bike Chariot Racing Championships. As you can see, he doesn't do things in half measures.

Our charioteer, Paul, was similarly cajoled into making the journey. Actually, Paul needs little persuasion for this sort of thing, and as I hadn't seen him in a few years it seemed a good excuse to have a laugh.

Most of the competitors had the same idea - we raced against two polar bears pulling an ice queen and narrowly lost out on a place in the final to Anthony and Cleopatra. We met Sally and James from Wacky Nation who spend their lives doing these sorts of events, and cheered a trio of Roman Goddesses who took twice as long as anyone else to complete the course. It was a shame that the eventual winners were the only competitors with serious bikes, full cycling kit and a silth like charioteer who must have weighed less than my left leg. Talk about missing the point.

The venue was Llanwrtyd Wells - home of the famous Man versus Horse race and World Bog Snorkelling Championships. They make a big deal of these events, not just because they attract visitors, but because they bring the community together. It seems to be working. Later, we met the three Roman Goddesses having lunch with their kids the Drovers Cafe; in the evening a toga party was planned at the pub. As I left, a drunken senator was stumbling across the square to a backdrop of the snow covered Elenydd mountains.